Secrets are visible at their tip
curved toward the heart
as stalk bound for water.
We pull back
but seed and root rush out
a swallow becomes a jolt
eventually a pulse
in the dark of ground
hyacinth handed down from mother
to son and every daughter
the dryness of love
the wet of the body
has no choice but to crest
hold in the belly
and wosh in the cold white of lungs.
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